Havana ball. Live review of Deaf Havana at The Roundhouse

Deaf Havana *****
Charlie Simpson **1/2***
Big Sixes ***1/2**

The Roundhouse, Chalk Farm, 25th October 2013

Now, I don't know the chaps (and now chapess) from Deaf Havana personally. I did have a passing conversation with a young and fluidly refreshed J V-G at the Strongbow tent at Sonisphere a few years back, have bumped into Mr Pennells on several occasions while he was doing his other job as a sound jedi at the marvellous Barfly, but having closely watched them grow up over the years, I can't help feeling deeply paternal about this East Anglian bunch of ne'erdowells. 

Having followed them (not in a stalkery or rapey way, honest) from their screamo emo days in rat holes and toilets, via festivals, untold support slots, unplugged recitals in churches and sell out spectaculars at Shepherds Bush, tonight represents a coming of age. A transition. Moving from primary school to big school. Or maybe even packing up the boot of a patched up old hatchback with toasted sandwich makers, food parcels, guitars and Ikea pots and pans and finally leaving the family home. And, it's fair to say, it's an occasion bathed in conflicting emotions.

But before the big event, there's some other friends joining in the graduation. 

First up are Big Sixes***1/2**. Since last time I saw this lot of pleasing, talented and beautifully harmonic young tyros, they seem to have multiplied. It may have been the Chianti and Jager the last time I saw them, but I don't seem to remember being that many of them; whereas tonight, the stage appears filled with bodies. No matter, the output is thankfully unaffected by the proliferation and a well-received smart set of tight and intelligent pop rock gets the evening off to a flyer.

The next friend ringing on the doorbell is Mr Charlie Simpson**1/2**, and he's brought a huge bunch of mates around too. Playing to, by now, a pretty packed cavernous and splendid old engine shed, Mr Simpson and his muckers pile into a lively set of, well, country-tinged, MOR, poppy, Eagles-ish, er stuff, kicking off with the boisterous and rousing sing-a-long Parachutes.

I'm confused though. While he's obviously hugely talented, this style and line up does little, if anything new. The songs are all splendidly crafted, but there's no edge. No lustre. The assembled session men are all clearly brilliant players, but all they really achieve is to pull Simpson's personal and honest songs into a Radio 2 mid morning, backward-looking middle of the road, Snow Patrol-infused greyness.

Simpson appears caught. Still young, it feels like he's been over-exposed to his dad's or an uncle's record classic rock or country record collection and slavishly recreated the anachronistic vibe, rather than mixing in anything new, challenging or different. 

Don't get me wrong, it's far from bad - and the prepubescent crowd don't seem to care where it's come from, they slurp at this saucer merrily - it just feels twixt and between. Neither fish nor fowl. Not far enough away from early Chris De Burgh or America and with that nu-folk, nu-country vibe soccer mom-friendly middleness that seems to be the vanilla de jour thrown in to further neuter any real thrust.

Simpson needs to have a good think. Be painfully and confidently naked. Or outrageous and wear uncomfortable bleeding edge haute couture. Not ham dresses necessarily; just don't be the off the shelf chinos in the middle. Great songs though.

Right, back to tonight's main matter at hand, the continuing rite of passage of young 
Deaf Havana*****

House lights down, Elvis up, then Boston Square in your face. We're off. And so are the baying and adoring crowd. 

And the emotional intensity doesn't abate. Older favourites Little White Lies and I Will Try get fists pumping, hands clapping, friendly pits opening and hearts exploding. A trumpet super-charged newbie Everybody's Dancing And I want To Die keeps the whole thing going set to hyper-power. There's no room for breath (the odd wee technical glitch aside) and James Veck-Gilodi's fabulous voice has seldom sounded better.

The rockier guitars and jagged edges maybe long gone to be replaced by broader, richer and more adult oriented arrangements, but the youthful intensity has thankfully remained intact. Throw in the complete honesty which is encoded on this lot's genome and even though they've matured so quickly, the painful innocence and alluring but stumbling and gauche impertinence of yoof are still etched, like old teenage acne scars, on a twenty something's stubbly chin. The glossy varnish has, mercifully, not smothered the innovative and original craftsmanship. 

Throughout, the older Veck-Gilodi appears genuinely overwhelmed and his normal eloquent and verbose inter-song banter is replaced by a repetitive mumbling mantra about how he (and the rest of the band) are blown away, undeserving, humbled and shocked by the event, the attendance and the fervour of reception. 

It's impossible not to be caught up in the import and emotion of the situation. The hatchback is moving further down the road and towards the motorway paved with fame and fortune. We genuinely are witnessing a seminal and important moment in this charming and engaging band's life.

And to kick dust into already moistening eyes, the bastards produce some sublime emotionally charged heart-bleeding moments; the gorgeous Saved and a slightly more upbeat alternative take on the self loathing and pitying masterpiece Anemophobia being the main emotional thumbscrews. The sing backs are cacophonous and fervent, the whoops, hugs and general love in the room wholeheartedly palpable. This is so very special.

There are lighter moments, the sparkling cover of The Cure's Friday I'm in Love leading the charge. JV-G's apparent Springsteen obsession even manifests itself in a brief cover of the boss's I'm On Fire, but the overwhelming emotional intensity is ever-present.

As the set ends with the magnificent paean to hometown history Hunstanton Pier, it's hard not to start blubbing like a baby who's run out of rusks. And by the time they're begged back onto stage for the last three emotion bombs, I'm A Bore, Mostly (which Veck-Gilodi doesn't truly need to sing as the crowd enthusiastically sing every word back at the tops of their thousands of assembled voices), new favourite Mildred and the plaintive Fifty Four, it's clear the band are no longer our little boy, but a full on hairy-balled, gruff voiced, independent and successful man. Taking of which, slightly mystified (if not a little relieved emotionally) that they didn't perform the stadium friendly anthemic throat-lump-making Caro Padre. But you can't have it all.

There's obviously so much more still to come from these wonderful misfits and miscreants and it'll be fascinating following their adult progress. But for the time being, I genuinely feel like they've left home for bigger and better things. So with a tear in the eye but an enormous throbbing vicarious pride and a firm, manly handshake it's time to let go. 

All the best boys (and girl). All the best.

The Karmathutra. Live review of Delta Sleep at Catch Bar.

Delta Sleep *****

Suffer Like G Did ****1/2*

Our Lost Infantry *****

Catch Bar, Shoreditch, 23^rd October 2013

Trendy old Shoreditch. Downtown Ho Chi Minh City but with beards, bicycles and bellends. And, tonight host to one of the most adventurous and genuinely exciting bills that this achingly self-loving part of town has seen in a while. Like a mini taster or distilled essence of the triumphant Arc Tan Gent Festival (review here) earlier this year.

Catch is one of those long thin, rectilinear penis-shaped venues. The balls are the milling about bit, the shaft, flanked by a long bar - where most of the flat cap wearing, chin-scratching coolites are hanging - and the engorged glans, the bulging pit in front of a wee, but well equipped stage.  A bit like a less well hung MacBeth.

Our Lost Infantry *****

Anyway, it’s pretty much full from its whiffy bridge to its japseye tonight by the time that Aldershot quartet Our Lost Infantry sidle on to face the impressive, throbbing throng.

From the off, they take command of the cavorting. Youthfully and enthusiastically swinging wildly between intricately arousing strokes, sweeps and touches to meaty pummeling and brutal drops, riffs and thrusts.

And it’s insanely satisfying. The harmonies married with techy trips and tunes magic up heady and irresistible rogering, if not, at times more of an excited dry-humping puppy dog than an oiled up, experienced L.A. stud muffin. But what a start to the evening. This is no foreplay: just straight for the G spot.

Lovely to see such young guys producing such sophisticated, intricate but not at all onanistic and ultimately accessible, terrific stuff. More please. But need a quick recovery nap to get the mercury rising again.

Suffer Like G Did ****1/2*

Ok, sap levels restored. Well, as good as it’s going to get. Next on the spotlighted platform of pleasure are Londoners with the splendid House of The Dead inspired nomenclature; quirky, geeky and alarmingly alluring Suffer Like G Did.

Carrying on the sensorial slapping and schlonging little brothers Our Lost Infantry instigated, they produce an absolutely electric, greased up, spectacularly mesmerising and arrhythmia-inducing blitz that leaves even the most hardened beard fondling Joy Of Sex extra look-e-likey (as your dad kids) breathless and flushed.

This is technically brilliant without ever bordering on ‘by rote’ or contrived. It’s a fresh, fantastic, jaw-dropping mash up of seductive funky lines and being stabbed in the ringpiece by fizzing and probing polyrhythms and all manner of adventurous digital  exploration.

At times, there are moments of pure fusion: Al Di Meola, Return To Forever, Bitches Brew era Miles Davis and even Herbie Hancock, but just as you’re settling into the penetrative funky vibe, it all goes Dillinger Escape Plan, Stravinsky and Stockhausen. But without being intrusive or dissonant for the sake of it. File alongside the brilliant Physics House Band and you won’t be that far away.

The playing, interplaying and construction displays a knowing but never self-regarding temporal perfection. And they seem to be blushingly, and uncomfortably, loving it.

The crowd, their supplicant and greedy quarry, is writhing in pleasurable abandon as the cool dudes who are calling all the shots are embarrassedly looking fixedly downwards at their desert boots and hush puppies. Almost blissfully unaware of the super-heated stimulus they’re doling out.

Stunning, beguiling, heart-stopping and fresh. This is modern lovemaking of the highest, engaging and technical order. Oh yes. Yes. Yes.

Delta Sleep *****

By now, we’re all replete. Overflowing. A bit sore. Fulfilled. Leaking. But then another unlikely über-sexy beast armed with all manner of potions, lotions, tinctures, straps, tools, toys and devices enters the boudoir. And won’t take no for an answer.

What ensues is truly x-rated. Rougher, deeper, at times angrier, edgier, more daring, but underpinned with the same consummate skills, trickery and guile the first two lovers had ejaculated upon us. There’s math aplenty, but soused in Meet Me In St Louis or Reuben-like pop punk and alt reveries.

A totally mind-altering, stunning and moving collection of melody, rhythm, harmony, aggression, technical prowess and inventiveness. This is raw, but sophisticated. Rough, but silky smooth. Frenzied but controlled. Bludgeoning but dexterous. And bloody eye-rollingly and chest-blushingly wonderful.

The refrain in Jesus Bill!!!! Gets the limbs, hearts and minds aching with deep joy with every man, jack and Harriet joining in while swinging from the chandeliers.

The band themselves look slightly taken aback at the reaction. We did that? Yes you fucking did. And we want more. More. More…more. No bottom drawer faded and careworn applecatchers here. Every detail of this naughty outfit is designed and delivered to turn on. To excite. Top drawer precision-designed hand stitched erotica. Gulp.

The joy spreads like a voracious and all consuming STD. Before long, everyone is infected. Affected. Satiated. The telepathy between the performers is micro-second perfect and the drumming throughout is genuinely other worldly. This dreadlocked wizard is one of the most laconic, laid back skin ticklers I’ve seen in years, but is truly incredible and provides the batteries and vibration behind the lion’s share of the priapic performance.

By the time the set ends, there isn’t a pore that hasn’t issued, a follicle erected and any naughty squishy bits haven’t got, well squishier. The guys (and gal) seem shocked at the baying and begging entreaties for more and dip back into the love toy bag to produce a triple strength prototype double ended violator of a freshly baked new tune that gives everyone, including the band, the happiest of happy finishes.

Simply unforgettable. Stimulating. And unfair to many other a band. I feel ruined, rooted, loved, abused, seduced and completely spent. Amazing stuff.

I really can't remember a gig of such unrelenting and exciting quality. All 3 bands (apologies to the evening's opening act Adults, The Elderly And Children for missing them, a Vietnamese feast sidetracked me - well a man's got to eat, even in Shoreditch) were of such outstanding quality. While there's challenging, technically masterful and engaging music like this on the scene, then all our wretched lives are saved. Bloody marvellous.

Need a lie down. 

Max Effect. Max Raptor live at The Black Heart, Camden

Max Raptor *****
Love Zombies *****
Spirits **1/2**

The Black Heart, Camden, 15th October 2013

As firework night is nearly upon us, it seems fitting to run the thumb over tonight's sulphurous and cordite-infused explosive neo-punky album launch spectacular with a nod to the memorial of the burning of a catholic anarchist. Obviously.

Spirits **1/2**
Opening tonight's display in the not much bigger than a family firework selection box venue are trio Spirits.  

All fizz and crackle without massive sparkle, they produce a tight, competent, if not slightly derivative, display of power pop rock. There's certainly an edge, they can definitely play, the songs have hooks and energy, but for some reason, they fail to fully ignite the early arrivals.

Not bad, by any means, just all a bit standard. (Well the Standard gag was inevitable, thought I'd get it in the bag early doors - apologies).

Love Zombies *****
Next out of the selection box are the odd looking, potentially thrilling but awfully named Love Zombies. 

Now, I'm not sure anyone here tonight (even the masses of industry luvvies and liggers) would remember the Hornsey art school post punk new wave Rough Trade din-makers The Monochrome Set: but if this lot are trying to garner punk credibility by naming themselves after the second (and frankly bloody awful) album, then they've failed as it's the flimsiest straw that a greasy hand could grasp at. 

So, what have they got in their gaudy selection box to thrill the revellers?

In short, absolutely sod all. A damp, stale, flatulent proto punk, anachronistic squib. Yes there's a bit of an initial  tantalising sparkle in the shape of the enthusiastic Pennsylvanian puppy dog of a front woman. But the blue touch paper just continues to burn with a disappointing, low, spluttering and unsatisfying retrogressive flicker.

Her backing band are a collection of table-top indoor fireworks that have been soused in stale lager. I'm not sure if there is even a modicum of lustre in the first place to be lacking, but the overall effect is just so anti-climatic and flaccid. 

There's absolutely nothing new, relevant or challenging here. It's like the very worst of the NY new wave scene of the early 80s has been cryogenically suspended and tried to be thawed with one Bryant & May slightly damp match.

But, to be fair, our puppy dog ringmaster keeps up the energy throughout, chasing her tail relentlessly and tries to get banter going with the largely disaffected and unimpressed throng. But, sadly, they're just no good.

Oh, and they even have a theme tune. One word: Quixotic.

Max Raptor *****

Rather like at a home bonfire party after your guests have so kindly brought round a bumper family selection box of about three hundred shitey little fart bombs and unsatisfying glowing pixie's bellends, it's time to bring out the throbbing, turgid and explosive good stuff.

The tinderbox that is The Black Heart is now full to the gunwales with expectant and excited boys and girls as the fuse is ignited.

And what we're treated to is one of those compact, intense and explosive fusillades you get from one of those fuck off firework displays in a box that turn back gardens and rugby clubs into domestic versions of Olympic closing ceremonies. 

The set is regrettably very short, but in the words of that weird futuristic Japanese eye maker in Blade Runner, those who burn half as long, burn twice as brightly. 

The brilliant new album Mother's Ruin is represented heavily (as you'd expect from an album launch show) with banger after banger assaulting the senses. The singles Breakers and England Breathes being show stealers. Old faves like The King Is Dead and the eternally splendid Patron Saint Of Nothing have lost absolutely none of their spiky and violent allure and get the crowd finally ignoring the health and safety safe distance instructions.

That said, because the crowd make up appears to be very industry-heavy this evening, the fervour and abandon usually accompanying this lot's travails is somewhat missing. There's plenty of agog, agape mouths, oohs and ahhs and woo hoos but not a whole heap of spazzing or moshing. 

Nevertheless, Max Raptor continue to enthral, entertain, eviscerate and explode on their inexorable rise to wider exposure. Their pointed, thought-provoking, clever and beguiling selection of punky, rocky, poppy, anthemic bombs are sure to light up bigger and bigger displays in the not too distant future. Cracking stuff.

Friends like these. Live review of Funeral For A Friend with Gnarwolves and Polar at The Electric Ballroom

Funeral For A Friend ****1/2*
Gnarwolves *****
Polar *****
Moose Blood **1/2***

Electric Ballroom, Camden, Thursday 3rd October 2013

Once in a while, there's a line up that makes a gig totally unmissable. On the face of it, an unholy cooked up collection of differing and disparate highs, lows, trips and mind blowing oddness: punk, savagery, sophistication, old school, new (pre)school, hardcore, pop punk and post hardcore emo/screamo. Well, tonight ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it's one of those. A fucked up, mixed up, mashed up knees up.

And first up? 

Moose Blood **1/2***
To kick things off from tonight's Mad Hatter's pharmacy a dose of medium strength pop punk. Mildly mind altering but ultimately a lowish potency and pretty much over-the-counter in terms of danger or side effects.

There's not vast amounts of energy or excitement here. But at this stage of their career, they're probably far more comfortable in smaller, edgier venues than a 1,000 capacity vast hall. More milk of magnesia than meth.

That said, the Canterbury-based quartet put on a decent and honest enough show and get a few heads spinning and Vans tapping.

Side effects: May cause tapping of feet while nursing a lager in a snap back. In rare cases may cause a light mosh or fist pump. Mildly intoxicating. Probably best taken in confined spaces. Will get stronger over time. 

Polar *****

A completely different strength and type of substance next. Guildford's very own mainlined hardcore noisy bastards Polar.

A brilliant and savage assault on the senses. This is highly toxic, head-fucking gear. While they've been honing their output and polishing the heady ingredients for their already much vaunted and highly anticipated new release set for next year, they've been cooking up some serious shit in their mind lab. 

The addition of huge sub drops has added a vast new depth and bowel-loosening strength to their already mind-blowing and brutal cocktail. And they've even thrown in, dare I say it, a milligram or two of melody among the mayhem.

Frontman Adam Woodford is in dynamic and amphetamine-like fizzing dervish form. Cajoling the gathering crowd to get involved: and the slick, powerful and super-strength set is inhaled, snorted and stuck up the bum willingly by the hooked and crazed pit.

On tonight's showing, this lot are maturing into a bigger-boned, butcher and broader band by the minute. Having toured with the likes of the excellent Heights and Bleed From Within, you can feel the heavier influence permeating their output. There are even moments of While She Sleeps in the newer, more complete sound and if the new album lives up to the hype, then this fucked-up, honking, roaring juggernaut will only pick up more and more irresistible speed. 

Side effects: Likely to cause convulsions, fits, serious and uncontrolled flailing of arms, legs and genitals. Many users will report involuntary raising of the middle finger, dizziness, tightening of the anus and an urge to lose one's shit and drink a truck load of Jagermeister. Sub drops may also cause involuntary soiling of undergarments. Powerful stuff.

Gnarwolves *****

In the next vial, we move onto a much more curious and intriguing nostrum. A raggedy baggedy, highly intoxicating, head-buggering, sensorially exploding mind fuck. True, honest stripped back, euphoric and joyous punk. 

There's a real earthiness to Gnarwolves. This is no hydroponically grown lab-tested and refined gear. This is straight from the plant. Dirty, strong, heady and bloody deliciously powerful. And guaranteed to make you smile like a loon.

The raggedyness and roughness increases the allure: the perfect antidote to banal, samey, over-polished and over-produced, over-the-counter blandness. 

And it's not just wider classification that this heady mix puts to shame; within the tight and often self-protecting and self-congratulatory genre of pop punk, this hit is the one. It's a different strain to most of the predictable pop punk: rawer, gnarlier, grimier, filthier, er, funner.

Tonight's performance is as good as I've ever seen this lot. Especially given that they're on a big stage in a big room, when their smoke is usually considered best inhaled in a tight, dingy, packed, sweaty bong-sized room. 

But, by now, there's a really decent crowd on the floor and the smiled-doused mayhem and fervent sing-backs that break out are testament to the highly addictive and mind-elevating strength of this loveable but mildly disarming bag of earthy goodness. Wow.

Side effects: Care should be taken when administering this highly powerful and mind-altering mixture: delirium, uncontrollable face-damaging smiling, raucous yelling, spasms, losing bodily control, diving, whirling, losing self control and self respect while dancing like a cunt are all very common side effects. You have been warned!

Funeral For A Friend ****1/2*

So, on to the final dose of wonder on this most intoxicating and perception-widening of sessions.

Over a decade ago, we inquisitively opened a bottle marked with potentially confusing and conflicting ingredients: screamo/emo, post hardcore, metal, punk and a maybe even a few more mysterious constituents. And many were instantly hooked - whatever was in the mixture hit a spot. And hit it hard.

However, it was considered by many as unclassifiable. To some even unpalatable. Too confusing. Too different. Too adventurous. But by now, most sane-minded folk realise just how ahead of their time they were. A point proven by tonight's opening dose of 10:45, Amsterdam Conversations. Their first song ever written together. And it tastes and feels as fresh and relevant today as it did back then. In fact, even fresher. 

It soon becomes clear that tonight's seemingly mis-matched bill is no accident from the apothecary. All the bands here tonight have their hearts and DNA in broadly the same place. 

As FFAF hammer through a bewitching and beguiling 19 song long set, all the emotional responses are triggered. All the influences touted and outed. The rawness is still there. But it's juxtaposed with brilliant and tight musicianship. 

There are heavy bombs, political rapiers, punky, don't-give-a-fuck-finger-in-the-air anthems and it is truly elevating and mind-expanding. From The Art Of American Football, through Best Friends And Hospital Beds to the set closer Escape Artists Never Die: old ones, new ones, really old ones and ones from in between. All greedily hoovered up by the assembled addicts.

Despite inevitable line-up changes over such a long period in the business, the integrity, freshness and originality still shine through and oozes out of every sweating pore. With the irrepressible (stitch notwithstanding) Matthew Davies-Kreye fizzing like space dust and whipping up the packed house of adoring acolytes into a loved-up frenzy.

The crowd's diversity displays exactly just what a cross-over act FFAF truly are. Hipsters, punks, metallers, goths, pop punks, indie kids, dads, granddads and granddaughters but all united like some serotonin-bathed love puddle in total adoration for this most influential and enduring of remarkable class A acts. And long may the addiction continue.

Side effects: In all cases, racing heart, euphoria, feeling of well-being. Spontaneous singing and clapping. Moments of melancholia but accompanied by lucidity and  seeing of visions. Continued long-term use strongly recommended. 

The First Frost of autumn. Liam Frost Live Review St Pancras Old Church

Liam Frost *****
Norma Jean Martine ***1/2**
Daniel James *****

St Pancras  Old Church, Wednesday 2nd October 2013

A church. A real church. Not deconsecrated or anything. A proper, working bloody church. Gulp. It is with more than a little apprehension that I cross the threshold; fearing my lips blistering, lightening bolts or being turned into a pillar of salt.

But The Big Man's obviously having an off day and I avoid any heavenly punishment and take a proper old-fashioned church seat in this most stunning, dimly lit and atmospheric of venues.

Daniel James *****

First onto the pulpit is London-based Ulsterman Daniel James. Appears to pretty standard singer/songwriter fare to begin with: good looking slightly moody young lad with an acoustic guitar and an almost apologetic air sidles onto stage to no fanfare and kicks off into a perfectly pleasant strummy acoustic song with a cracking voice. All good. All nice. All, well, a bit seen and heard before. 

BUT, the lad has a fiendish trick or two in his wizard's sack. Firstly there's the 21st century equivalent of a string-driven one-man-band kick drum - a pedal which he stomps at with glee to produce a big ol' marching band boom-boom. 

Then, there's another magic pedal/box of tricks which layers delicious vocal harmonies over his voice, from almost tribal woo oos to gospel choir styled depth, which in this house of supposed omniscient being, adds a heavenly, choral and glorious texture to his well constructed and beautifully delivered songs.

Interesting, slick, soulful and lovely stuff.

Norma Jean Martine ***1/2**

For the second reading in this evening's service Stateside chanteuse Norma Jean Martine props herself behind her electric piano altar and kicks off with a very pleasant and beautifully sung pared-down ballad.

Her voice is point-perfect and clean but for me, she does a little too much of 'that thing'. The 'that thing' that I sadly struggle to adequately describe. Ashamed to admit it, I have occasionally watched X-Factor and you know the kooky girls they get every year (Diana Vickers, the other one with the DMs et al), they do 'that thing'. It's like there's a small bubble at the back of the throat which has a restrictive compression on the pronunciation. You know, 'that thing'. And every aspiring young female singer seems to do it, at least a little bit.

Anyway, 'that thing' aside, she certainly puts a good tune together and delivers a frail but strong beauty. After the first tune, she then swaps to a guitar and what looks like a rag-tag assemblage of a super slick jug band joins her on the pulpit. Acoustic guitarist/keys, electric guitarist, percussionist on one of those de rigeur Cajon box thingies, backing singer and a tiny bloke on a massive acoustic bass.

And things get huger. A big sound fills the now packed church. It's kind of nu-country, kind of folky, kind of, well, nice. Thankfully, the ensemble doesn't overpower Martine's delicious voice ('that thing' notwithstanding) and they plough through an engaging, soulful, pleasant set. The songs are good throughout if not a wee bit derivative, but there's enough diversity and dynamic on show to stop it all sounding too samey.

Whether there's enough sustainable difference from the hundreds of similar acts it's difficult to say, but apart from 'that thing' she certainly has got something. And something potentially very special.

Liam Frost *****

So, first and second readings done, it's now time for the main sermon. And a very slim, stylish looking reverend Frost steps up to the altar in front of a now completely packed church (one can't help thinking that the vicar/priest/wizard that calls this place his own wouldn't feel massively jealous at the size of the congregation here tonight - it feels like Songs Of Praise is being filmed in a normally empty parochial church and the whole village have showed up - where were you bastards last week?). 

Anyway, back to the very reverend skinny manc.

I've been a massive fan of Mr Frost from his earliest days as a chubby, emo-looking embarrassed penguin with a floppy fringe and a bottle of Jack in his days with his Slowdown Family in its various line-ups through his session-band accompanied, record company influenced attempts to hit the big time: countrified, americanised and smoothified. But the one thing that has remained consistent is his astonishing honesty, integrity, frailty and amazing songwriting ability.

In the most packed of all possible genres; being a singer/songwriter with an acoustic guitar is the most difficult to achieve 'stand out' - there's nowhere to hide. But Frost stands so far apart from so many of the chasing pack. His songsmithery is delicious, complex, witheringly honest, personal, poetic and original. And tonight, he's at his very, very finest.

His voice is plaintively perfect. His playing clever, at times complex but always soulful. And the combination is mesmerising, captivating and spellbinding. Running through a huge range of songs culled from the very beginning through to brand new delights and even a stunning, goosebump-inducing Sade cover, he just opens up the clear water with the competition more and more with every note he plays and sings. And I have to admit that on several occasions tonight I was genuinely moved to watery eyes and dry throat.

The love struck congregation dine greedily and the effusive reception to every song hopefully shows Liam the love and respect that'll keep him producing such fabulous and gorgeous music long into the future. 

The word needs to be spread. Amen.